


The Shadow Of A Lonely Man

by Airelle



Category: The Professionals
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-21
Updated: 2012-01-21
Packaged: 2017-10-29 21:37:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/324414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Airelle/pseuds/Airelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A sequel story to LOOK THROUGH MY EYES, which can be found in the permanent long stories folder at Proslib, and on the Proslib CD.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Shadow Of A Lonely Man

**Author's Note:**

> First published in the zine A SIMPLE GAME, which is a sequel zine to Jane Carnall's LOOK THROUGH MY EYES, around 1994/1995. Those two zines can be found in the permanent long stories folder at the Proslib archive. I tried to link this to the Proslib archive, but it doesn't work. However, it is much better to have read the original story to be able to understand this one.
> 
>  _To Jane, Nicole and Cat, with my humble thanks for the great story and wonderful illos, and for making me believe in Bodie/Cowley. May the force be with you, even if you can't spell "disembowelment". Neither can I._

Sitting there in the early morning, all Bodie could feel or think was: what do I do now?

Yet he had a lot of things to do. For one, he wanted to go see Cowley. The death of a loved one is not definitive until one has seen the body. _The corpse_ , Bodie forced himself to think. _He's a corpse now. He hasn't been much alive since his return, but now he... is... truly... dead._

Somehow, the idea of a dead Cowley was impossible to fathom. Bodie had thought him dead for two years. He had gotten back a shadow of a man, a shadow that had never really been able to recognize him. A shadow that had not been Cowley, and yet had been everything to Bodie for the past several months. He'd literally been living for him, to help him and soothe him as best he could. To interrogate him. Yeah, Doyle was right. He'd made a living hell of Cowley's last days of life. Yet what else could he have done? It would have been worse if someone else had conducted the interrogation - it _had_ been worse, the one time they tried!

He had to go to Repton, to see Cowley one last time. He knew he would not be allowed to take care of the funeral. Thomas Reid would probably be buried secretly, infamously. An encumbrance. Bodie was ready to beg, to bribe, to threaten, to be allowed at least to be there, to accompany his lover to his final resting place.

Feeling nothing but numbness, he went to the bathroom, mechanically shaved, washed and dressed, and left for Repton in less than twenty minutes.

***

Doyle was exhausted. He had been working hard, long hours on his present assignment. He was worried sick about Bodie. He'd not heard from him since the last time they'd met - explosively - more than a fortnight ago. And the man he had seen then had _not_ been Bodie; not the fastidious, elegant, coolly controlled man he had known.

Tomorrow was a day off duty for Doyle, the first he had received since he’d gone to Carswell. He had been planning on an early night, as early as he could make it when getting back so late to begin with. He had brought supper from a nearby takeaway, and had eaten without really tasting the nem and chop-suey, thirstily gulping down three of the _Tsing-Tao_ beers he favoured with Chinese food. The light alcohol did not inebriate him, but accented the pensive mood he'd been in since his confrontation with Bodie. He understood he had no business prying in his ex-partner's life, no matter how hard it was to accept. But Bodie had been his friend - still was, as far as Doyle was concerned, despite the misunderstandings. All right, he was not going to ask questions, only to offer support if Bodie was willing to take it from him. And the poor bastard would need it, with Cowley's present condition! He resolved to seek Bodie out first thing in the morning.

***

Doyle had not been asleep for long when the phone rang. Nobody ever called him that late any more; the only one who had rung at odd hours had been...

"Bodie! Is that you, mate?"

A tired, halting voice called his name. "Ray. It's... it's me... I'm near your flat. I... can I come?

"Of course." Doyle's mind was working frantically. Bodie was there. Did it mean he had decided to talk to him at last, to share some of his problems? Well, never mind the late hour, this was just the right time. He'd been so worried anyway, he'd have slept poorly.

True to his word, Bodie buzzed at the door five minutes later. Doyle was utterly shocked at the sight which greeted him.

Bodie had not looked well at all when he'd last seen him, but it was nothing compared to his present state. He was dishevelled, unshaved, visibly no more sober than that last time, and his eyes were fever-bright in a livid face. He was still beautiful, in a sickly way, but his cool, good-humoured poise was nowhere to be seen; he looked frantic and exhausted at the same time.

Bodie's eyes restlessly surveyed the room. "You're alone?" he finally asked.

"Yes, Bodie. Come on in, you look ready to fall. What happened to you?"

"I've... not been well lately. May I... sit down?" He rubbed his right temple in a pain-filled motion. Doyle gestured for him to sit on the couch, but Bodie remained where he was, oblivious to his surroundings. Doyle took his elbow and steered him to the couch. He had to push him slightly to make him sit, and then it looked more like a fall than a conscious move.

He sat beside the silent, despondent man, urgently asking him what exactly was wrong. When Bodie failed to answer, Doyle took hold of his shoulders and shook him slightly. "Bodie. I can see you're sick, and you're needing rest. But first you have to tell me what happened. Can I help? Come on, mate, speak up!"

At long last, Bodie lifted his eyes to meet Doyle's. "There's... nothing you can do. I... need a place to stay a while... to..." The sentence trailed off, unfinished.

Suspicious, Doyle asked "You didn't do anything stupid, did you?" then stopped, taking in Bodie's sullen expression. "All right, I'll let you rest, but only if you swear there's nothing amiss. Nothing urgent. If you tell me it can wait till tomorrow, I'll take your word for it. So?"

"I did nothing. There's nothing you can do... I swear it, Ray. Oh, god, my head hurts... I can't think properly..."

Bodie's pain made Doyle's insides ache. Two years had gone by, and he was still in tune with Bodie's feelings, still able to worry about his mercurial partner.

"I'm going to put you to bed, and give you some painkiller for your headache. We'll talk later if you need it; tomorrow I'm off duty. All right?"

There was no answer, only a slight nod. Doyle fetched the pills and water. Bodie drank dutifully, choked on the water, and began to cough in racking, painful sounds that tore at Doyle's heart. _He's always been susceptible to cold... I'd better call a doctor tomorrow, he'll need more than aspirin to get well. But rest is the first priority._

The coughing fit calmed quickly enough, and Doyle hauled his friend up and all but bodily carried him to the bedroom. Which was no small feat, as Bodie was taller and heavier than he, although not as heavy as he used to be. He's lost weight too. My god, what happened to him? Is Cowley sicker? That could explain it, even if it looked a bit extreme to work oneself in such a state over a former boss, even a well-liked, respected one. But Bodie had really been in a sorry state, that last time. _And what did I do?_ Doyle mused. _I hit him, I did not try to understand why he was doing this to Cowley. Could it have been because he had no choice? Because they would have interrogated the Cow, no matter how? Because it was better for Bodie to be there, to soften the procedure as much as he could? To give Cowley the comfort of his presence?_ Some almost-knowledge kept nagging at Doyle's mind, whispering there was something else... Something he ought to understand...

Bodie let himself fall on the bed as soon as they reached it, and Doyle quickly undressed him. He winced as he saw the large, purplish bruise on Bodie's flank, knowing he was the one who'd put it there. It was swollen and unhealthy-looking, and Bodie moaned when he brushed it accidentally. His eyes were closed, and Doyle could not decide if he was asleep or unconscious. He hoped Bodie would sleep long enough to be a little refreshed on waking.

Having tucked the blankets around his friend, he shrugged off his robe and joined him in bed, careful not to touch him. The poor sod needed the rest, and he didn't want to disturb him.

***

However, this particular night was not destined to be restful for either of them. When the sounds woke Doyle again, he opened a bleary eye and cursed his clock as it informed him that he had slept less than three hours. The sounds were coming from Bodie's half of the bed. The ex-merc was sitting on his side of the bed, shivering, his legs dangling out, and he was trying, without much success, to put on his shirt. The sounds that had pulled Doyle out of his sleep - these sounds were sobs. Bodie was crying aloud, and Doyle instinctively understood that his friend had been trying to leave the bed, maybe even the flat, to hide his tears.

Totally awake now, Doyle shifted in the bed and seized Bodie's shoulders, pulling him to the centre of the bed, where he proceeded to cover him again with the blankets. God, the man was frozen! How long had he been fumbling with his clothes, half-naked and sobbing? He felt Bodie lean heavily against him, all strength gone, the sobs getting louder and louder until he almost choked on them. It went on for a long time, and all the while Doyle held him, stroking soothing circles on his back through the blankets, murmuring softly to him as if to calm a nervous animal, or a sick baby. After a while, he felt Bodie's arm slide around his waist, anchoring them together, and a kind of sad joy pervaded Doyle's mind. Bodie still needed him after all. The old rapport was still there. But at what cost?

At what cost? _Oh my god_ , Doyle understood suddenly, _Cowley is dead! That's why he's here, that's why he came back to me_.

"Bodie? Bodie, are you feeling better? Lie down, please, you must be exhausted. I think I know, you see. Something... happened to him?"

Bodie did not need to ask who. His mind was still replaying the sight of Cowley's dead body, lying so utterly motionless on the narrow bed of his hospital room. Bellfriar had spared him the sight of a body being pulled out of a drawer in the hospital mortuary, but Bodie was not sure he'd not have preferred that. On his bed, the bed he had occupied when alive, Cowley looked even deader, even more... gone. There had been enough left of the respected chief, of the demanding lover, in the hollow shell that went back from captivity. Only now was he able to see the difference. Only now was he confronted to the unyielding reality of what death truly meant.

Coming to Doyle's flat had been a desperate gamble to find some emotional security in a world gone mad. Bodie had known subconsciously that his only hope to survive the grief of Cowley's death rested with Doyle. They'd relied on each other so much, for such a long time, and despite their two-years-long separation, the old magic was still there. Despite Bodie's attitude, and Doyle's anger at having been cut off, their friendship was intact. It had just waited in limbo for over two years, that was all.

"He... died three days ago... His heart gave out, they said. Do you know that he never recognized me? He... remembered you, but not me. If I could kill the bastards who did this to him... He was beginning to improve, you see. He wasn't so afraid anymore, and I think he liked me."

Bodie - laconic, shell-mouthed Bodie - spoke for a long time, his memories interspersed with bouts of crying, still held tightly in Doyle's arms, his chilled body gradually getting warmer in the warmth of his friend's embrace. Without really intending to, but freed from the necessity to hide it, he told Ray that he and George had been lovers for years, that he had deeply loved and respected the man who had offered him a new career when he came back from Africa, the man who had helped him regain his health - both mental and physical, for Bodie had been in a sorry state after his years as a mercenary, a fact he'd never let on, but that Doyle had suspected on more than one occasion.

Doyle was strangely unsurprised at the revelation. For now, the man needed unquestioning support, and Doyle was more than willing to give it. There would be things to settle later, but now was not the time for them. He only answered from time to time, when Bodie seemed to need an input in his monologue. Then Doyle would murmur some non committal answer, would make soft accepting sounds, or would stroke lightly his friend's back or arm, offering silent reassurance.

Doyle was biting his lips to stop himself from squirming, as a cramp was making itself known - loudly so - in his right arm and shoulder, which had been holding Bodie for he didn't know how many hours. The dark-haired man was silent now, lightly dozing, and Doyle was loath to disturb him.

Eventually, Doyle was forced to give in to his body's demands, and carefully laid Bodie back on the bed. He let himself be manoeuvered in a supine position, though he groaned when Doyle tried to break their physical contact, and the curly-haired man kept a light hand on his friend's shoulder. Later, Bodie rolled over and came to rest on his side along Doyle's outstretched body, waking him yet again. Sensing that Bodie needed it, he pulled him on his shoulder, feeling the damp face nestle in the crook of his arm. Moved, he remained awake a long time, feeling the long lashes occasionally brushing his skin, and listening to the uneven breathing of the man who had endured so much to remain at his lover's side.

***

Despite his lack of sleep, or maybe because of it, Doyle woke up quite early, feeling as if he'd been hit by a truck, but unwilling to try and sleep again. Bodie was still fast asleep, but his features were moving restlessly and he looked ghastly in the grey London dawn light. Ray got up noiselessly, and tiptoed to the bathroom. A shower later - he'd taken it with the door open, afraid Bodie might wake and try his disappearing act again - he felt almost human again. He went to the small kitchen, put on the light above the sink, and prepared some coffee. He needed it, and so would Bodie when he awoke. Then, he settled on his narrow couch to wait for Bodie to wake up, and unexpectedly fell asleep again.

When he roused from his doze an hour or so later, Bodie was gone.

***

Doyle had searched all day, raking his brains to try and find where Bodie could have gone. He called everybody he could think of - Murphy, Jax, McCabe, Susan Fisher, and some others - and no one had seen Bodie. In fact, not a single one of them had known that Bodie was back in town. Doyle found vague excuses, saying that he'd heard from a snitch that Bodie was back, but it was unlikely... The man must have been mistaken. He was strangely unwilling to share his knowledge of Bodie's presence in London, sensing that the man needed privacy above everything. Using his MI5 clearances, he investigated the hospitals, the police stations, then, with a sinking heart, the mortuaries. He heaved a long sigh when it appeared that Bodie was not one of the anonymous corpses laying on a cold slab in wait for identification.

Then he thought of the pubs. Bodie had taken to drinking during his long months of waiting on Cowley, particularly so after the trial of the interrogation. God knew Cowley had not been the only one to go through hell during that cursed interrogation! For all intents and purposes, it had almost destroyed Bodie too. Doyle had felt helplessly angry when Bodie had sobbed out the sorry tale of Cowley's last days. He had offered the same wordless comfort, but he'd have liked to bash a few heads.

Bodie was in the fourth pub he visited. It was a small, quiet pub that they had used to patronize when they had been working for CI5. The place had not changed much in two years, but the waitresses had, and no one recognized Doyle. His eyes searched the pub discreetly, and he spotted Bodie sitting alone in a recess. He felt such elation at having found him that his heart skipped a beat and he staggered a little. Then his stomach began to churn with anger, anger that had been kept at bay all day long by the gnawing fear. He sat himself at the small table, and did not wait for Bodie to raise his head.

"Here you are! I've been looking for you all day long! Even phoned the damn mortuaries, thought you might have... But no! You were just getting drunk again!" Doyle's voice rose with anger, all the more so since Bodie remained silent and sullen, his head still bowed on his glass. "Bodie, whatever your problem is, drinking is not the answer! You'll have to face it sooner or later, and if you want me to help you, it'd better be sooner! Talk to me, dammit! I'm not the enemy!"

Bodie raised his head at last, and Doyle could see that he'd been crying again; his eyes were red-rimmed and puffy in a chalk-white face. "Who is, then? Who's responsible? They killed him! Drake, Northcott, Sullivan... They _killed_ him. They're as much responsible for his death as if they'd put a bullet through his head. Why did they have to go and do that for?" His voice faltered. "And why did they have to go and make me do that for? It's my fault. I should have been able to protect him..."

Doyle's anger subsided when confronted with his friend's distress.

"Bodie, don't do that to yourself! You know as well as I do that you did everything you could, everything that was possible... You told me yourself how much worse it'd been when they tried to interrogate him without you being there." He smiled tightly. "Hey, Bodie, remember! I'm the one for guilt trips, not you! Play it right, mate!"

Doyle had not been sure that his call to memory would sit well with Bodie. The last two years did not hold much appeal for Bodie, but he had hoped to summon older, dearer remembrances; from the time when they were partners, best friends... and would someday be more, as Doyle had once believed possible. Then he'd come to think that the hints he'd given of his interest had either not been understood, or discreetly disregarded because Bodie was not that way inclined... Ray would never have guessed the truth, and was still slightly bewildered at it. Bodie - macho, self-assured, women-loving, devil-may-care Bodie - involved in a long-term relationship? Committed to a man more than twenty years his senior? And keeping his mouth shut about it, even with his mate? Even when drunk, or delirious, or out of his mind? There decidedly were unplumbed depths to the man, Doyle mused.

Bodie's long silence was beginning to grate on Doyle's already frayed nerves, when the faintest of smiles lit Bodie's features. "Those were our days of wine and roses, weren't they? I didn't know then, I didn't know they were the best I'd ever have... I had... him, and you, and the job... We were the best, weren't we? CI5's best. And now... now..." He hung his head again to hide the tears that welled in his eyes, hating himself for his weakness. He should never have come to Doyle; their friendship was a thing of the past. Why bother the man now? It was all so pointless... Bodie closed his eyes, wishing the world would go away and leave him, alone and silent, on the edge of nowhere.

"You still have me, mate", Doyle said softly. "I know, it ain't much, considering all that's been lost, but I won't let you down. Like the old days, all right? Me protecting your back, you watching out for me... That's the way things always were for us, they don't have to change. Come on, Bodie, let's get home. There's nothing here for you. You need feeding, and sleeping, and coming to terms with it all. You won't do it getting drunk in here." Bodie did not move, and Doyle took his arm forcibly, snapping, "Come on, mate, I've had enough of it! We're going to my place, and that's final!"

Doyle's heart twisted when Bodie followed meekly, his beautiful blue eyes dulled with pain, despondency written all over his face. He ushered Bodie in the car, and watched him close his eyes and lean back wearily against the headrest. He was obviously exhausted, close to total collapse. Wandering all day, and drinking to top it all, had done nothing to improve his - at best - precarious state of health.

When they reached Doyle's flat, Bodie was unable to get out of the car, and he yelped sharply when Doyle pulled him out. Startled, Doyle let go of his friend's arms, asking what was wrong, but getting no answer as Bodie just stood there, pale and shivering. The cry had been one of pain, and suddenly Doyle remembered the swollen bruise on Bodie's side - a two weeks old bruise that should have been healed, or nearly so. _Damn it,_ Doyle thought, _I cracked his ribs when I hit him!_

Guilt washed over him at being the one who had added physical pain to Bodie's already overwhelming burden. He hadn’t realised he had hit him quite so hard. Very gently, he slid his arm around Bodie's shoulders, coaxing him to move while he fumbled for his keys with his other hand.

Bodie was totally unresponsive, and that worried Doyle no end. The taller man let himself be maneuvered onto the bed and closed his eyes. With a sense of déjà vu, Doyle undressed him and set about examining him, his CI5's first aid training coming in handy. Bodie was suffering from a low-grade fever, as far as Doyle could tell, and the bruise was definitely ugly looking. There was nothing he could do if Bodie actually had cracked ribs. He knew a doctor from his CI5 days who would be willing to come and examine Bodie without making a fuss about it. Doyle called Ben Simons, who said he'd come as soon as possible. Then he made black coffee to get something warm into Bodie to counteract the alcohol.

While waiting for Simons, Doyle tried to make Bodie talk to him. Bodie was obviously at the end of his tether, and ready to fall apart. The fact he'd been able to talk and to cry the night before indicated that he was not totally closed up; he should be able to help him, Doyle thought.

Simons arrived an hour later. Bodie had been dozing fitfully, and Doyle had abandoned his attempts at talking, and let him rest. When Simons had finished examining Bodie, he injected him with some painkillers and antibiotics, and strapped his ribs, which were indeed cracked, as Doyle had suspected. Bodie bore it without a word, his face paling even more, sweat beading his forehead and upper lip as the doctor wound the tape around him.

Doyle hovered near, wanting to help, not knowing how. When he saw Bodie was about to lose consciousness, he caught him gently and eased him back on the bed. Simons called him to the other room, and Doyle reluctantly left the bedroom.

"What happened to him, Doyle?" Simons asked. He had known Bodie in his CI5's days, a time when Bodie's physical fitness had been flawless. "He's totally run down. I'll have to make some blood exams to confirm it, but I think he's suffering from anaemia, he's undernourished, his muscle tone is not good, and he's been drinking heavily quite recently. Plus, he has some chronic infection, bronchitis I suppose, which is wearing him down. I'll give you a prescription for a treatment, but he needs to change his way of life to get better. And why did he neglect to have his ribs strapped? It only made the cracks worse, and this kind of injury can be real painful! He was lucky not to have a broken rib, only a few cracked ones, or he could have perforated a lung."

Doyle had answers, none of them he could share with Simons.

"He's been having... other things on his mind. A difficult assignment..." he said, deliberately misleading Simons to believe Bodie was working with him, for MI5. It would save embarrassing questions.

"Well, whatever his job is, I advise he take a break or I'm not sure he won't fold up totally. What about his state of mind, Ray? He looks... depressed, too. I know some jobs you do are quite demanding, but..." He stopped, thought for a minute. "Well, make sure he sleeps, and rest. I'd like him to have some tests, but it can be done in a few days, when he feels stronger. I'll leave the prescription with you. Forward the results to me when you get them, and we'll see. Tonight, give him two of these if he can't rest. He may need sleeping pills for some time, I've written them down too. I have seen this kind of exhaustion before, he may be unable to go to sleep, or he may wake several times during the night. Either way, he won't be getting enough rest. Do not hesitate to give him the pills... He may be better off in hospital..."

He saw Doyle beginning to object, and raised a staying hand. "I know, I know! If you had thought it was possible for him to go to hospital, you'd have taken him there! Well, I'll be discreet, don't worry."

"Thanks, Ben. Besides, you know Bodie, he never could stand hospitals. I'll take care of him."

"I know you will. Well, keep in touch, will you?"

"Sure, Ben."

Doyle locked Bodie in to go to the nearest chemist shop. He wanted no repeat of Bodie's morning stunt. The man was out of his head with grief, that much was clear. Bodie had never been one for half measures, Doyle thought. He went back mentally to the time that bloke from Bodie's old unit - what was his name, Williams, Williamson? - had been killed by a gang of Hell's Angels. You'd have thought the poor sod had lost friend, family and lover all at once. Doyle had actually wondered if Whatshisname had not been in fact more than a friend to Bodie; that could explain the violence of his reaction, his single-mindedness, his obsession with finding and punishing his friend's murderers. Doyle had felt, at the time, that he did not know Bodie anymore. It had frightened him, in a way nothing else about Bodie had before. And Cowley... Cowley had been the one who had stopped Bodie then, in the most violent of fashions, using the only language that could reach Bodie when he was in such a state...

When Doyle got back to his rooms, Bodie was awake but lying flat on the bed, still pale-faced and sweating.

"'Lo, Bodie. You feelin' better?" Doyle's cheerfulness was strained, but he had to try and relieve some of the tension he felt in the room. "I've brought you the medicine Ben ordered, and some Chinese food. Know you love it. I'll warm it up, then we'll eat. Bet you had nothing to eat today?"

Bodie did not answer at once, and Doyle wondered if he had heard him at all. When he spoke, his voice was dead tired, but Doyle could hear in it a faint echo of Bodie's resilient personality. Or was it only wishful thinking? "I'm not very hungry, Ray, but I guess I'll better eat. Had nothing yesterday as well... Do you mind if I rest a while longer? This... hurts..." He gestured vaguely towards his chest.

"All right, you rest, and I'll do the chores. But tomorrow you'll do your share, okay?" He went to the kitchen and brought back water and pills for Bodie to swallow. "Here, Ben said you have to take these. He ordered sleeping pills, too. I won't force them on you, but I think you'd better take them later on. You're not going to drink yourself to sleep anymore, Bodie, not if I have a say in it! So I reckon you're going to need the pills."

"If I need them, okay, I'll take them. But I feel so tired, I think I'm going to sleep tonight", Bodie said with the faintest trace of a smile. This time, Doyle knew he had not been mistaken. Bodie, his partner, the one who could charm birds out of the trees, was still in there; he'd been hurt, had known hard times, but Doyle was certain Bodie was going to make it. _With a little help from his friend_... The misquoted words of one of the Beatles' most famous songs sprang unbidden to Doyle's mind, haunting him the way things do sometimes when one is worried or troubled.

He called Bodie when the meal was ready, and the ex-merc came to the living room under his own steam, looking still frayed around the edges but having regained some colour.

They ate in companionable silence. Then, as it was still early, and Bodie, despite his tiredness, did not feel sleepy, they settled on the couch, Doyle sitting, Bodie sprawled on his back to ease his still-hurting ribs. Doyle has bided his time; now there were things he wished to settle with Bodie.

"Look, Bodie, I don't want to push, but there's no way I'm having more of today's shit", he began abruptly. "I'm going to help you but I want a promise. I want you to promise me you won't do again what you did today. I was sick with worry, you dumb crud!"

Bodie watched Doyle silently for a minute. "Yeah, I know what you mean... Should have told you before I left, but you were asleep, and you looked so tired... And I think I just couldn't take it... Talking to you, after last night... I mean..."

Doyle smiled at him, understanding Bodie's embarrassment. "You mean, what you told me about you and...? Don't be upset, I won't pass judgment on you. Being bi myself, it would be quite stupid, wouldn't it?" Doyle, for all he was worth, could not have brought himself to say Cowley's name at that very moment. He knew perfectly well the issue was not in Bodie being wary of his rejection, but in his own almost-unacknowledged jealousy, born from the regrets of could-have-beens and missed opportunities.

Bodie digested that, remembering several occasions where he had thought that it was possible Ray fancied him. But he had always dismissed the notion, considering the eagerness with which his partner went for the girls. He understood, quite belatedly, that this dismissal had been more a way to protect himself from unwanted attentions than a way of acknowledging the truth. He had been close to Ray. In fact, he had been closer to him than to anyone else in the world - with the notable exception of George Cowley. However, there were things he had never been able to share with Cowley, which he had shared with Doyle. The bird-chasing had been one of these things. Cowley had always been strictly homosexual, and could not have shared this part of Bodie's life; thus he had elected to ignore it. His and Ray's everyday working relationship had been another of those things. It had brought, as the years went by, an unparalleled friendship. He loved George, but he spent most of his time with Ray, on and off duty. Cowley worked long hours, met a lot of people; ministers, politicians, business men, rich idle men, were part of Cowley's work and of his world, a world in which an ex mercenary had no place.

Now Bodie found himself wondering. The difference between love and friendship... what was it? For he'd always felt deeply for Ray, only not in this way. "This way" had been reserved for George Cowley, in an unspoken but respected agreement. Bodie had had girls aplenty, but no romance, no commitment; and no other men. Nothing to threaten his fidelity to Cowley. As, Bodie understood suddenly, Ray would have. Had Bodie recognized his feelings for more than friendship, they would have interfered with his relationship with George, and that was something he could not have afforded. It was easier not to recognize it, and not to acknowledge the signals he was getting from his partner.

He'd gone on with the easy relationship, the teasing, the casual touching that had always been part of it: the occasional affectionate ruffling of Doyle's luscious hair, the arm carelessly slung over thin shoulders, the deliberately joking embraces...

All Bodie said, after a long silence, was, "Oh. I never knew...", meaning much more than the mere fact of Doyle's bisexuality.

And Doyle understood the depths of meaning of Bodie's answer. He gave him time, time to think, to sample his memories and sort them out. He smiled at Bodie, warmly, openly, and it broke Bodie's heart. God, he'd missed that smile, in the two years of hardship devoted to try and find Cowley, or at least ascertaining his death. He would dearly have liked to have Ray with him at that time, but he had not wanted to give him the opportunity to offer his help. It would have been more than unfair to Ray, taking him on a desperate quest to find Bodie's lover. It was strictly Bodie's concern. He had left without a word, like the loner he was - being cruel in order to be kind.

Doyle's voice brought him out of his reverie. "Well? Do I have your word for it? You need help, Bodie, and I won't let you down. But I'm not made of wood, I can't stand that kind of things..." The sentence trailed off unfinished.

"Okay, Ray, I give you my word. If I need to leave, to be on my own for a while... I'll let you know beforehand. I'm sorry for this morning..."

"No need to apologize. Besides, I've got to do some apologizing of my own, mate. About that kick I gave you... I did not know I was being so brutal... That's no excuse, but... I'm sorry about it. Will you forgive me?"

"Already have. I was rather obstreperous that day, wasn't I? Besides, it may not be your kick that did the damage - not all of it, anyway. When I came back from... the funeral... I got drunk. I don't remember very well, but I know I fell across a chair at some point, and hit my side again. I think I passed out. It hurt like hell when I woke up, I could not even breathe properly. But I had no time to think about it. I wanted to come and find you. Knew you'd help me."

Bodie was in a particularly good mood, Doyle mused, considering the state he'd been in earlier. Warmth, food, relative relief from physical pain, the security of a place to stay and rest, and a friend he could count on, where probably the reasons for this remarkable improvement. But Doyle was well aware things were not back to normal for Bodie, far from it. He still had to mourn his lover's death and come to terms with it, as well as to regain his health. But Ray was glad for the temporary respite his friend was enjoying.

They went to bed a little later, and Bodie asked for the pills, as much out of a reluctance to disturb again Doyle's rest as out of a desire to retain as long as possible the state of hazy non-pain in which he presently floated.

They talked a little more before sleep took Bodie by surprise. Not long after falling asleep practically in the middle of a sentence, he rolled towards the warmth of his bedfellow. Doyle enfolded him in a protective embrace. Snuggled together, they slept.

***

Early morning found them still entwined under the blankets. Doyle was mightily annoyed at himself, for his cock was hard and throbbing, one of these meaningless morning erections he usually took care of by bringing himself to a quick release. But this time, his hardened flesh was pressed against a still-sleeping Bodie, and Ray wondered how to extricate himself from the situation without embarrassing both of them. He began to roll over, but his arm was trapped under Bodie's shoulder, and the movement disturbed him. Bodie rolled over too, neatly covering Ray's body with his own, his hands coming to rest on Ray's buttocks in a more than friendly embrace. Ray felt himself flush crimson, and began to shake Bodie. His friend had always been difficult to wake, Doyle remembered. Finally, he opened his eyes, took in the situation, and rolled off Doyle with a choked cry. He curled on his side of the bed, shaking uncontrollably. Doyle let him be for a minute or two, then began to worry about such an excessive reaction to such a minor event.

"Bodie? I'm sorry, it means nothing, you know... I would not dare to... Please, you believe me, don't you?" His worry did not abate when he took in the fact that Bodie was now sobbing, and trembling even more violently.

"'s not you... Oh, god, how can I... He's been dead four days, and here I am, wanting... And you... you apologize... when I..."

Bodie's broken words suddenly made sense, and Doyle forgot his own predicament to think of what Bodie was going through. It was far worse than being ashamed of a morning erection, and he was not sure of how to handle it.

"Bodie, listen to me. What you're feeling is a normal reaction. There's no shame, no treason in it. How long have you been denying yourself? You need human contact, you need to make love." He plunged ahead, whispering softly, not yet daring to touch Bodie. "I told you I'll be here for you. Let me help, Bodie..."

Doyle went on speaking softly to his friend, and gradually, Bodie's sobs abated, his tension-knotted body relaxing fractionally, and he turned over, closing the gap between them. Ray welcomed him back in his arm, this time feeling Bodie's hard sex against his hip, knowing the desire was not meant for him, but was a blind survival reaction on Bodie's part. Doyle was nonetheless willing to see it through with his friend, for him; he was aware he might well get burned in the process, but his own possible pain did not matter. All that mattered was the man in his arms.

They just held each other for a while, Bodie slowly accepting the truth of Ray's words concerning his own needs. He knew it was unfair to his friend, but he had no more emotional reserves to tap, and he could no longer resist the unselfish offer of comfort.

Doyle waited for Bodie to make the first move, not wanting to force anything on his friend, only willing to let all options open. He felt a gossamer caress on his back and shoulders, a slightly feverish hand exploring his skin with unexpected gentleness. Then Bodie's breath became shorter, his hands more urgent, and Doyle found himself swamped by a tide of desire. Old longings, ones he had never dared recognize, came to the fore. He knew then, with a sick certainty, that he was going to be hurt. That the relief he was offering Bodie was much, much more than a friendly, meaningless tumble; that it was his heart's desire. Only it had no meaning, no reality. The recklessness of his younger years overcame him then, and, like one drunk, or drugged, he decided to take all there was to take, and let the consequences be damned. But he knew at that very moment - oh, how much he knew it! - that the only one damned would be himself.

Unheeding of his own certitude, he threw himself headlong in the pleasure those hands on his flesh were evoking, in the pleasure of reciprocating the caresses, of stroking the so-white, astoundingly soft skin - satin encasing a man of steel - of kissing the tender, childish pout, of brushing the long, dark lashes with reverent lips. He was truly making love to Bodie, while Bodie was simply assuaging the oldest of all instincts, the need to create a new life when an important one was extinguished. The inevitable barrenness of their lovemaking was not important. The important thing was the symbolic meaning of their coupling.

They touched, no holds barred, nothing forbidden, doing as they had always done, going all the way. But when Bodie, with a moan of pure lust, threw himself on his stomach and parted his legs, Doyle's mind drew a blank. It could not be what he thought? Bodie could not want...? Yet it was, and Ray's heart sank at the thought he was going to be Cowley for Bodie, a demon lover born from need and grief and loneliness... He had known, without knowing how he knew, that this had been the reality of Bodie and Cowley's relationship, Bodie the receptive partner, Cowley the dominating one.

The mechanics themselves were far from unknown to Doyle. He'd had his share of male encounters, had played both roles, and found pleasure in both. He closed his heart to the pain of making love to Bodie under a pretence, and single-mindedly set himself on making it good for the other man. He prepared him as thoroughly as he knew how, stroking and stretching the tight, tender opening, pressing his spit-slicked fingers against the sensitive flesh of Bodie's insides, finding and stimulating the hidden gland, eliciting moans of pleasure from his partner. Then he pulled him up, one hand to Bodie's engorged cock, the other stroking alternatively his nipples, pinching and pulling hard at the responsive nubs, to help dull the necessary pain of entry - how long since Bodie had made love this way? _Must be years,_ Doyle thought, _he's so incredibly tight!_ Then, understanding, _years, yes, a little bit more than two years... oh, Bodie, Bodie..._

"Bodie, Bodie! I..." He bit back the trivial words, the words he usually shouted at the top of physical passion, a mere courtesy to the person who was lending him his or her body for his pleasure. He could not say these words to Bodie, for they needed so very little to be true! Clinging to his last threads of sanity, he forced himself to remember why he was doing this, and concentrated on bringing Bodie to a deep, shuddering release. His partner's climax triggered his own, and he barely managed to pull out in time. He spent his seed on Bodie's still trembling back, the jerking spasms of pleasure marred by the loss of the warm, encasing flesh that fitted him so well. Yet the compulsion to withdraw had been irresistible, a tribute to his knowledge of the falsity of it all.

Bodie collapsed under him, limp with satiation, and exhaustion. Doyle followed, wrapping the taller man in protective arms. Bodie slept again for quite a while, and Doyle listened to the sound of his even breathing - the most peaceful sleep the poor bastard had had in days, he was sure. Feverish heat poured from Bodie's back into Doyle, who was beginning to feel the internal chill of thwarted emotions. Blindly, he clung to the sleeping man, unable to regret the momentous blunder he'd just made, considering the peace it'd brought Bodie. He remained awake, waiting for Bodie to wake up.

***

Not unexpectedly, there was some awkwardness when Bodie finally woke. Doyle had carefully avoided leaving the bed, not wanting to give his friend the opportunity to deny something had happened. He was prepared to accept, if need be, that what had passed between them would not happen again. He was not prepared to accept a total denial. Bodie came to in Doyle's arms, still sticky with their spent semen, his ribs aching fiercely after his earlier exertion. Memory sprang back to his mind, as it did every morning, every nightmarish morning. As soon as consciousness returned, he saw, in his mind's eyes, Cowley's dead body. The finality of it crushed him, as it had done for three days. As the finality of Cowley's condition had done for so many months. Yet this morning there was a thread of comfort, a warmth... _Ray…_ He snuggled closer to the source of peace, then another layer of sleep was torn from him, and he opened his eyes.

Remembering what they had done, he closed his eyes again, murmuring, "Oh god, Ray, I'm sorry... Why did you let me...?"

"You needed it, sunshine." Ray dared to use the old endearment, trying to pour in his words all the affection he felt for his ex-partner. "And I'd be lying if I said it was such a sacrifice on my part... Don't worry, we can leave it at that if that's what you want. No pressure, Bodie. No ties."

Bodie did not answer, but his muscles, which had tensed on awakening, relaxed again. Doyle stroked his shoulder, in a sexless, comforting motion. "Time to wake up. We're going to have to build back your strength, and lying in bed all day ain't going to do it! First of all, breakfast. I'm starved, what about you?"

Bodie realised with surprise that he was indeed hungry. "Breakfast sounds good. I'm going to help you fix it." He sat up, too quickly, and felt a sharp stabbing pain as his ribs protested the sudden stress. Thinking of the way he'd disregarded his ailment a few hours ago, it was not very surprising. However, Bodie managed to hide his reaction from Doyle, and completed the motion without showing how much it hurt. They went to the kitchen, and set about doing the myriad little things people do in the morning ritual of feeding the beast. For Bodie, every movement was like a small fire burning in his side, until, white to his lips, he grabbed the sink to remain upright. The sudden stillness alerted Doyle, who understood immediately what was happening. "Fool!", he hissed, taking Bodie's elbow and steering him to the main room, and on the couch. Bodie sank gratefully on it, his head spinning, forced to acknowledge he was actually far from recovered. His pain threshold seemed drastically lowered, Bodie reflected. He'd been hurt worse before, and had not reacted like this.

Bodie was not a very patient man with himself, and it annoyed him no end to be in such dire straits. He wanted to pull himself together, to somehow get on with his life, as he obviously lacked the courage to forfeit it. The thought had occurred to him, but Bodie was basically a survivor; you don't do the kind of job he'd done all his adult life without being one.

Doyle was taking care of him in his typical, unobtrusive way. Bodie could read the concern in the green, almond-shaped, almost alien eyes. Suddenly, Ray's beauty hit him in the guts. He'd known his partner was beautiful, of course, but had deliberately erased from his conscious mind the dangerous knowledge. Now he drank in the sight of the elfin face which should not have been beautiful, with its broken cheekbone, and yet was, its marred perfection somehow accenting the temporary status of all human beauty, making it so much more heart-rending.

"All right, mate, you rest a while longer, and I'll fix breakfast," Doyle said after having ascertained Bodie's fainting fit had been merely produced by too much exertion and a generally run-down condition, but was not heralding more serious problems. He'd chided Bodie for his 'tough guy act', reminding him that there was no need of such pretences between them, they'd both been wounded before in the line of duty, and they both knew it hurt. And they both knew that acknowledging it did not make lesser men of them.

Once he'd rested a while, the knifing pain in Bodie's side dulled to a steady, bearable, almost ignorable throb. When breakfast was ready, he found he was still hungry, ravenously so, for the first time in... weeks? Months? He could not remember. Bodie knew it was his relative alcohol abstinence which was likely to have produced this effect; but it felt great. It made him feel alive, and for now the feeling was too good to forfeit. He'd felt so bad, and for so long, without anything or anyone to lighten the future, to give a ray of hope... He smiled. "Little Ray of hope..."

"What?" The words had been a mere whisper, and Doyle couldn't quite make them out, the only thing going through clearly being his name.

"Nothing, mate. Was just thinking aloud... Now, shall we do the honours to that wonderfully smelling breakfast of yours?" They did, and Ray thoroughly enjoyed the sight of a ravenous Bodie, eating wholeheartedly the copious meal he'd fixed. He looked much better already, but Doyle knew that this high-strung state may not last. He knew enough about depression - some from personal experience - to understand that changes of mood were frequent and unavoidable. It was nevertheless a respite, one he hoped Bodie enjoyed as much as he did.

Doyle was on holidays for two days, and he'd intended to check on Bodie, so he had no plans for the day. Resting at home and chatting with Bodie were fine by him, but what would Bodie want? He'd roamed the town - and the pubs - yesterday, although it did not seem to have done him much good. Maybe Doyle could assuage the restlessness with a little TLC. That was what Bodie needed, he decided. He was past due for some comfort; that, and having his mind occupied, sheltered for a while from the recent trauma of Cowley's death, and the more ancient, long-lasting one, of the months of taking care of what was left of his lover.

After breakfast, feeling deliciously replete and slightly drowsy, Bodie sat again on the couch, where Doyle joined him after cleaning the table. They switched on the telly, zapping through the channels to find something they'd want to watch. At the push of a button, Spock's pointed ears appeared on the screen, he was shouting and grabbing his friend, the scraggy doctor, around the neck, and yelling things about how Vulcans were five thousands years ago... Nice show, one Doyle had watched often, but not for Spock. Captain Kirk was his favourite character, and very fanciable at that! Particularly his smile... Doyle was a sucker for smiles, and his smile was one of Bodie's traits he liked best, although the poor sod had little reasons to smile at the moment. He glanced sideways, and saw that his friend was half-asleep, eyes closed and head beginning to loll. He slid a gentle arm round the wide shoulders, and pulled Bodie to him. The sleep-heavy head came to rest on his shoulder, and Bodie murmured something inaudible.

Doyle was a little puzzled by the easiness with which Bodie fell asleep. His depleted body and mind needed the rest he had denied himself for so long, he mused. Later on, he carefully manoeuvered Bodie to lay supine on the couch, the dark-haired head not longer resting on his shoulder, but in his lap.

Now that Bodie had reached a safe haven of sorts, there was no more reserves to be drawn on, but an almost childish trust in Doyle, in the fact he was going to help him. And, despite his numerous reservations about dealing with Bodie, the main ones being the likeliness of his getting mauled in the process, and doubts about his ability to cope with the mental and physical condition Bodie was in, Doyle was indeed decided to do so. Looking down at his oblivious friend, he noted the slightly pouting lips, so much like Bodie's old self. But there were dark smudges under the eyes, and the face had lost its pleasant plumpness; it had become a face older than the man who wore it. Slowly, he smoothed the creased brow that did not relax, even in slumber. Bodie turned into the caress, sighing softly, lost in some dream. Doyle could tell it was a nice one, for Bodie smiled; then he saw the single tear that escaped the corner of one eye, and he brushed it away gently. Whatever Bodie's dreams were, there was little peace for him in them.

***

Bodie had spend most of the day going in and out of sleep, too tired to want anything else than this rest, and Doyle's undemanding presence. Early in the afternoon, they fixed a quick lunch, and this time Bodie was able to help; his side was still aching, but distantly, and the bouts of nausea which had plagued him on and off for some time seemed a thing of the past. They ate the uncomplicated food in silence, Bodie's mind pleasantly numb, basking in the care and affection which radiated from Doyle. They watched some more telly, listened to some music. Over the years of their partnership, Bodie had come to like some of the Baroque pieces Doyle enjoyed so much, and the dynamic, lively tunes or Purcell's "Fairy Queen" were exactly attuned to his present mood.

Then Doyle announced, "I'm going to cook us something special for tonight." He needed to buy things for his planned meal, and this time he left Bodie alone in his flat without anxiety. If nothing else, Bodie was a man of his word.

***

"How do you call this, Ray? It's... delicious! I haven't eaten so well in..." His voice trailed off, his mood shifting abruptly as he remembered exactly why he'd not been eating properly of late.

He tried to cover for his lapse, forcing enjoyment in his voice when all he felt was pure, unadulterated loss and pain. Doyle was not fooled for a second, but went with the charade, as it wasn't going to help Bodie any if his friend too fell in one of his legendary brooding moods. So they ate, and bantered in a friendly fashion, and eventually Bodie regained some of his previous good mood. They called it an early night, and the air became suddenly fraught with tension when they finally adjourned to Doyle's bedroom. Ray let Bodie use the bathroom first, and occupied his time by laying besides Bodie's side of the bed the pills he was to take, along with a glass of water. He'd prepared Bodie's earlier drugs in the same manner, and Bodie had not seemed to mind, swallowing obliviously whatever had been handed to him. When Bodie came out of the bathroom, clad only in a pyjama bottom Doyle had dragged from one of his less-used drawers, and the stark white bandage around his ribs, Doyle smiled at him and went to the bathroom, leaving Bodie alone. Despite his earlier easy attitude, he felt somewhat tense about sleeping in the same bed as Bodie. Yet it would be doubly impossible to propose sleeping on the couch, it would only increase the awkwardness tenfold.

What annoyed Doyle was his own reaction. Whatever he'd told Bodie earlier about there being no ties, he desperately wanted to repeat the experience. His feelings, hold in check for so long, were demanding to be recognised. There was little doubt in his mind about the nature of his emotions, but he knew with absolute certainty that Bodie was in no state to be told about them; he needed no addition to his emotional burden. The only option left for Doyle was to keep it casual, to let Bodie decide which way their relationship would go, and to hope for the best.

Once besides Bodie, though, he found he could concentrate on his friend's well-being rather than on his own, and when Bodie rolled on his side to snuggle against him, he was able to take him in the friendly, sexless embrace which was obviously what the other man wanted at the moment. He wondered, not for the first time, about the emotional nature of Bodie's relationship with Cowley. The dour Scot had probably provided Bodie not only with the physical domination he seemed to need, but also with the mental fatherly support that may well have been the key to Bodie's continued equilibrium in their CI5's days.

In Doyle's estimation, Bodie, without realising it, was looking for the kind of support Cowley had offered. He needed someone strong and reliable to give substance to his universe, to anchor him to reality. If anything, his extreme reactions first to Cowley's abduction, then to his plight and his death, were indications of a strong emotional dependency to a figure of authority; which was not uncommon in military men. Doyle remembered how well T.E. Lawrence had described this feeling in his books, the utter relief of no longer being responsible for one's life or decisions, the bliss of following orders. The calm which stemmed from a life totally defined and pre-ordained.

In this case, Doyle thought, Bodie may have gotten more than he sought in the bargain. He'd gotten himself someone who was in love with him, and who could see no reasonable way of letting him know. Wearily, Doyle closed his eyes, accepting the responsibility of Bodie's recovery, committing himself wordlessly to the sleeping man held tightly in his arms. He had Bodie's trust and friendship; it was more than he'd had for two years. If Bodie was unable to give anything else, it would have to be enough, Doyle told himself savagely. Whatever his own problems, Bodie came first. His priorities set to rights, his peace made, Doyle allowed sleep to take him. And his slumber was undisturbed by ghosts, whether from the past or from the future.


End file.
